


Louder

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bad Weather, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pry Alexander Hamilton’s Fear Of Storms Out Of My Cold Gay Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: He’s tired, feverish, but Alexander Hamilton has to work.Then it’s raining, and he can’t stop the memories.—(I’ve played hurricane like ten times in a row now send help)





	Louder

**Author's Note:**

> Spot The Song References™️

Tonight, it rains.   
  
Alexander Hamilton has been writing within his study since the first sign of daybreak, and such shows upon his frame. His shoulders are tight, one arm bracing the table, a blue sheen warning to hold steadfast over his skin. Though he bears his glasses, perched upon his nose, his pale eyes can no longer focus upon the words he forms, and so the secretary of the treasury relies on many years of muscle memory to continue his most recent works.   
  
The short candles scattered around his desk sway, dancing in time to some escaped symphony and his quill scratches along to an unknown beat on his papers.   
  
He sighs. Ends a sentence that, even for him, had been extending for some length, adhering to some precise argument. And, as carefully as tired hands permit, he places his quill down flat onto the cherry wood of his desk.   
  
The raindrops stammer and stutter on the roof, audible even inside the very heart of the building where Hamilton sits. They drum louder than parade bands would, now constant and powerful. It’s almost criminal, he thinks bitterly.   
  
He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs at them, and attempts to stave off the things that simply will not cease to hound him.   
  
He pauses for a moment, and hears waves crash and batter. Over the calm darkness of a holding asleep, he hears well the howl of wind and bushes that shake their leaves in a low chorus.   
  
What he hears next, is a great and collective screaming.   
  
Alexander Hamilton jerks away from his desk, as though simultaneously burnt and possessed, sending his chair flying across the darkened room. His heart hammers in staccato against his chest and his eyes are open, bolting left and right, searching for the owners of the voices and agonies.   
  
Wait.   
  
The room is dark.   
  
When had his candles burnt out...?   
  
He stumbles around for a new set for a moment, aware enough of the room layout to avoid knocking anything down. A glance to the clock on the far wall revealed that time had passed sometime between his brief rest. At least three, perhaps four, hours.   
  
(Hamilton didn’t exactly keep great tablature upon knowledge of specific dates, only light and dark. Day and night. He lingers on that thought for just a moment, finding in hindsight that even those didn’t really matter to him.)   
  
The rain still falls, but it has found its rhythm now, a repeating refrain that seems, despite most scientifical probabilities, to be even louder than before. Increasing in volume, even.   
  
Visions of red and yellow, distorted skies and _running, running, running_ come together at once to flood his mind. He looks down at his hands, barely visible in the room due to the blanket of night smothering it.   
  
Pushing the images down was easy, but he struggles to keep them there. Again and again and again they assault his weary eyes and he presses his fingers into his sockets because _this is too much._   
  
What was this?   
  
Why did it always return, if the night beheld rain?   
  
Was he mad?   
  
(He refused to entertain that thought. It lingered despite this.)   
  
A crack of lightning causes adrenaline to light up his nervous system like a system forced into action by horsepower and he finds that his blunt nails have drawn blood from the skin of his palms. Callused things they are, too, so he must have used quite some force, Alexander notes, morbidly impressed.   
  
Leaves tremble. Wind calls out.   
  
His brother clutches him tighter—   
  
Hamilton slaps himself. Forces his hands to release his arms from the clamp grip they had found themselves in, and wipes his brow.   
  
He’s not a teenager. He is an adult.   
  
“Act like it, then.” He mutters. His eyes fall upon the cupboard to his left.   
  
Feet careful and debating, he makes his way over to it and sets the drink inside onto his desk.   
  
Holding the cup to meet and rest against the neck of the bottle takes a few tries, but he manages.   
  
It is well past midnight, and here Alexander was, drinking to his pains in solitude within his dimly lit study.   
  
The alcohol burns his throat as it goes down, but he doesn’t cough, not even grimacing. He’s not drunk, not yet, so he takes a long swig, not bothering to pause and savour.   
  
It doesn’t really take a lot to get him to where he needs to be. Just one of the few ways his size is useful to him.   
  
It is still raining, and Hamilton makes himself as small as possible as he waits for it to pass.

**Author's Note:**

> First Hamilton fic I’ve ever done, please let me know what you think exams have been eating me alive


End file.
